Mendocino and Other Stories (24 page)

“I'd trade him my mood for his car.”

She laughs. “What a deal.”

They're quiet again. The stillness of the day, the pond—it feels to Lucy like something breakable.

“She won't sleep with me,” Matt says.

Lucy raises herself onto her elbows and looks at him.

“No,” he says quickly, “I mean
sleep
sleep. She's started sleeping in the living room—except I don't think she really does. Last night I swear I heard her wandering around for hours.”

“God,” Lucy says. “
God.
”

“I know.” Matt sits up and gazes across the pond: at the dock, at the pear trees behind it. He looks back at Lucy. “Did I tell you Dr. Berg suggested we try imaging?”

She raises her eyebrows.

“You know—that horseshit about picturing your unhappiness, giving it physical attributes so you can be the master of it? Well, I did it, and now I can't get the stupid thing out of my mind.”

“What is it?”

“A solid block of ice—black ice, don't ask me. We've both got one, me and Ellen. Mine's sitting behind my lungs—just sitting there mostly, but every so often it bumps me with its sharp corners.”

“And Ellen's?”

“Ellen's melted,” Matt says. “It melted and now her whole body's full of cold, grey water.” He laughs a little and lies back again. “Heavy, huh?”

“It is,” Lucy says. “It all is.”

JADE IS BY
herself—sitting in the sun, leaning against the pool house. A few feet from her several little girls sit in a circle on the grass, and Jade has been trying to decide which of them is most like her former self. She's giving up, though—they're all too poised and self-confident. When Jade was their age, seven or eight, she was gawky and shy, so gawky and shy that she only had one friend: Gretchen Spengler. The hours, the
years
she spent in thrall to Gretchen Spengler! Gretchen, who today is probably some dumpy little housewife in the Valley. It's not that Jade thinks
she's
so great, but she'd love to run into Gretchen one time—at Ma Maison or one of those places Jeremy always wants to go. If Stuart were along, too, it would be even better; Gretchen could think Jade was with both of them. She'd love to see Gretchen's round, freckled face just
fall.

A shadow crosses over Jade, and she looks up: standing there is a man dressed in white linen pants and a pale yellow washed-silk shirt with terrible sweat stains in the pits. He hunches down next to her. “You look like you're thinking of something delicious and naughty,” he says.

Jade gives him a medium smile—she's suddenly realized that if Gretchen
were
a dumpy little housewife in the Valley she wouldn't
be
at Ma Maison. She wishes this guy would leave so she could think of some other way.

“Are you one of Lou's grandchildren?” the man says.

“No,” she says. “Are you?”

“That's great,” he says, laughing. “Funny lady.”

It was just a question, not really funny at all, but Jade's come to expect men to react strangely to what she says: it's because of how she looks.

“My old man worked with Lou,” the man says. “For Lou, I
should say. I'm really looking forward to meeting him, getting to know him a little. Have you seen him?”

“No,” Jade says. “I think he's pretty old, though.” She sees Stuart over by the keg of beer, and she points and says, “See that guy? He's one of the grandchildren.”

The man stands up and runs his arm across his forehead—he's really
sweating.
Jade's so glad she doesn't sweat: she used to, but it was one of those mind over matter things and she doesn't anymore.

LOUISA FINDS PANSY
talking to a boy of eighteen or nine-teen—he's someone's son, she can't remember whose. “Pansy,” she says, “can I borrow you for a minute?”

Pansy follows her away from the crowd. “He'd like to be shaved before he comes out,” Louisa says. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Pansy says—she would have done it before, but he said he wasn't ready. Why do Miriam and Louisa act as if she's stupid or mean?

“I just meant do you mind doing it
now
,” Louisa says. “You were talking to that boy and I interrupted you.” She glances over Pansy's shoulder and the boy's still there: longish hair and no shirt. He smiles and she smiles back at him. “Who is he, anyway?”

“I don't know,” Pansy says. She shrugs her shoulders and holds up her hands as if to say
No idea
, and in a moment they're both laughing: laughing and laughing.

MIRIAM GETS A
cold Bud for Uncle Don and goes outside. The table with the burger fixings is mobbed, but she can see that her bread and butter pickles are going like racehorses—as usual!

Don spots her from across the yard and when she holds the can
of beer up for him to see, he waves and smiles. “You're a mind reader, Mim,” he says when she gets to him. He puts his arm around her and squeezes. “What a gal.”

Wouldn't it be nice, Miriam thinks, if her father were so easy to please?

“What's Louie doing in there, anyways?” Don says. “Should I put one on for him yet?”

“It'll be about ten more minutes,” she says. “Better wait. He likes them very rare.”

“I know that,” Don says. “Sheesh—I've done this before, you know.”

“I know,” Miriam says. “And I appreciate it.”

Don stands a little straighter. “I don't begrudge it,” he says. “Not a bit.”

A MAN JEREMY
doesn't know is shaking Stuart's hand—he walks away from Stuart just as Jeremy reaches him.

“Have you seen Papa Louie?” Stuart says.

Jeremy shakes his head. “Still in the house, I think. Why?”

“Guy wants to meet him.”

“Good luck. I'm not even going to try to introduce Jade—I figure it would just go over his head.”

“Or hers.”

“Fuck you,” Jeremy says. “
Fuck you.”

“Touchy, touchy. You yourself said she's not exactly brilliant.”

“Go to hell.”

Jeremy steps around Stuart and fills his cup at the keg. When he turns back Lucy has arrived, wet and smelling of the pond, and he doesn't know what to do but join them.

“How's the water?” Stuart asks her.

“Divine,” she says, and she and Stuart laugh—it's what their
grandmother always said about it, although no one ever knew her to get past the dock.

“Where's Ellen?” Jeremy asks Lucy. “How's she doing?”

“I think she's upstairs,” Lucy says. “I'm going to go in in a minute and check on her.”

Jeremy nods. “Hey, where's Elias?” he says to Stuart. “I thought you were getting him some lunch.”

“He wanted to eat by the swing,” Stuart says. “I actually just came over here for a beer—I was going to go back and sit with him.”

“That's really not good enough,” Jeremy says, and he turns and leaves the two of them standing there.

He heads around the house toward the swing set, not really worried but at the point where he could easily become worried. Elias is there, though, sitting on the ground with his half-eaten burger on a plate in front of him, and Jade is sitting with him—not talking, but
there.
Jeremy is very happy to see her. “Both of you together,” he says. “Terrific.”

He sits down with them, thinking that everything would be perfect if only he could silence the little part of himself that wishes Stuart were there, that's dying to turn to Stuart and say, very quietly: at least
she's nice.

IN THE HOUSE
Papa Louie is ready. Ready to be shaved! Ready to eat! Ready to schmooze a little! “I'll sit at the picnic table,” he says. “I'll have a hamburger with lettuce and ketchup and a couple of those little pickle chips.”

“That's right,” Miriam says. “And we'll sit with you.”

“No,” he says, “I'll sit alone. I like to eat in peace.”

The sisters exchange a three-way look. “Whatever you want,” Louisa says. “You know everyone'll want to say hello.”

“They can say hello after I eat,” he says. “Well, miss, are you ready?”

Pansy moves a kitchen chair close to the sink, which she's filled with hot water. “Right here,” she says.

He goes over to the chair and sits in it, heavily.

“Want to take your shirt off, Louie?” Louisa says.

“That's OK,” Pansy says. “I won't get it wet. You'd better take off that cap, though, so I can see what I'm doing.”

He takes his cap off and holds it in his lap. Miriam looks at it, an old Giants cap so dirty and worn she herself can't bear to touch it, and she surprises herself by thinking: Oh, let him.

Pansy dips her fingers in the sink to wet them, then wets his face. She shakes the can of shaving cream and sprays some into her hand, then she spreads it onto his face, little by little, gently, how he likes it.

She's about to start shaving him when the door opens and in comes Lucy, followed almost immediately by Jeremy and Elias. They all stop just inside the doorway.

“Who's that?” Papa Louie says; they're behind him.

Louisa motions for them to get where he can see them, and they do. To Lucy she points at the ceiling and raises her eyebrows, and Lucy nods.

“Hi, Papa Louie,” Lucy says, just as Jeremy's saying, “Hey—Papa Louie.”

“Who's that?” Papa Louie says again.

Lucy and Jeremy look at each other.

“Your grandchildren,” Louisa says.

“Whom you love,” Pansy says.

“I know who they are,” he says. “I mean
that.
” He raises a shaky finger and points at Elias.

“Why that's
my
grandchild,” Pansy says. They all look at her, but it's too late when she finally realizes what she's supposed to
say: whom
I
love. She feels herself getting teary, and she thinks that her sisters are right—she's stupid
and
mean.

“Who needs to pee,” Jeremy says finally, and they're all so relieved they laugh.

“Well,” Papa Louie says to Elias, “you've come to the right place, son.”

“Listen,” Jeremy says to his grandfather, “according to Stuart there's some guy out there who wants to meet you.”

“Out of the question,” Papa Louie says. “I don't want to meet anybody I don't already know.”

“Dad,” Miriam says.

“I SAID NO!”

Everyone is silent for a minute or two. Finally Jeremy shrugs. “Fine with me,” he says. “I just thought I'd tell him.” He puts his hand on Elias's shoulder, and Elias follows him out of the room. After a moment Lucy leaves, too—heading upstairs.

“Well,” Miriam says uneasily. “Where were we?”

Pansy picks up the razor, but Papa Louie is getting to his feet—he pushes the chair away so roughly it nearly falls over. He turns and looks at her with something like rage. “No one,” he says, “no one should ever tell anyone else
whom he loves!
I may love them, but that's
my business!
”

The sisters look at each other and begin, each just a little, to tremble. But then it just drains out of him. They can see it happening, and they all think: Thank God.

“I'm sorry,” Pansy says. She knows this is all her fault, but she can't stop herself: in a small, weepy voice she asks, “Do you love me?”

“Certainly,” he says evenly. “You're my daughter.”

Miriam and Louisa glance at each other. “And me?” Miriam says.

“Of course—you're my daughter.”

“And Louisa?” Miriam says. “Do you love Louisa because—just because she's your daughter?”

Papa Louie wipes the shaving cream from his face with a kitchen towel, then puts on his cap. “No,” he says thoughtfully. “No—I really love Louisa.” He walks over to the door and opens it, and everyone outside stops talking and looks at him.

HER BACK AGAINST
the wall, Ellen sits on the little iron bed in the bunk room and listens to Lucy's footsteps going down the stairs: she just sent Lucy away.

She doesn't want to talk to Lucy, to anyone.

She doesn't want to hear anyone tell her that she should try to get over it.

She wants to be by herself, so she can think about her baby.

Her baby. In her mind, despite what everyone said, she named her baby—an extravagant, absurd name. Elizabeth Caroline Natalie Louisa McGee. If the baby had lived she would have had a simple name, but Ellen believes that, dead, she needs more names, stronger and better ones. Elizabeth Caroline Natalie Louisa. When she first chose these names Ellen felt like her six-year-old self, who wanted four daughters to name Sandra, Andrea, Diana, and Cassandra. She liked the fat letters then,
a
's and
d
's and
n
's. She wanted four fat babies with red hair, felt she was owed them. What she got was one skinny, shriveled baby with a blue face, but it didn't matter because she loved,
loves
her baby. She's crying again now, but that doesn't matter either—cry-ing or not crying, it's all the same. Here's what she's learned: you can't cry forever. At first she was afraid she would, but it's not like that—you cry, stop crying, cry again, and each time it's a little different, a slightly different piece of you falling away. She cries and cries, and she's crying so hard now that at the sound of the first
shout from outside she's not sure she heard anything. She stops herself and listens: another shout. After a minute or two there's another, and soon another. At the fifth shout Ellen's curiosity gets the better of her, and she goes to the window and pushes aside the shade.

Down in the yard, Papa Louie sits alone at the picnic table. Everyone is grouped around him, and one by one Miriam and Louisa and Pansy carry the pear tarts to him, a single burning birthday candle held at each center. One by one he blows them out, and each time everyone roars with approval. To Ellen it sounds like this: Ah! Ahh! Ahhh! There are so many people down there: she sees her father and Lucy, Jeremy and Stuart, Uncle Don in his apron. Matt. And children—Ellen sees lots and lots of children. Yet she looks.

For support during the writing of this book the author would like to thank the Iowa Writers' Workshop, the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, and James Michener and the Copernicus Society of America.

Many thanks also to some willing readers and helpful critics: Jane Aaron, Fred Leebron, Kathryn Rhett, and especially Jon James.